Portrait, You Say?
by mailroomy
Summary: Harry invites Draco to go on a portrait-procuring adventure. H,D smarmy, poss. pre-slash
1. Chapter 1

Title: Portrait, you say? (part 1 of ?)  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, pre-slash

Word Count: ±1,625  
Warnings: Unbetaed, post-DH, possibly AU also

Disclaimer: Not mine. They're definitely Ms. Rowling's, I'm just borrowing them for my twisted means.  
Summary: Harry invites Draco to go on a portrait-procuring adventure.  
Notes: Since this is my first Harry/Draco fic, comments and criticisms are definitely welcome, especially since I'm really worried I'm going to OOC the characters badly.

**

* * *

**

There wasn't a portrait of Severus Snape on the wall in the Headmaster's office, and many were glad about it.

Many thought it was just as well, and many seemed to think that it justified their opinion of the dead man all along. Bad, bad man, they had said on the streets, even Hogwarts rejected him. Twenty years of teaching, a year of being headmaster, and still Hogwarts the School rejected the man, they had said.

Speak no ill of the dead, their wise forefathers had said, but wise words fell on deaf ears. Voldemort! Tom Riddle Diddle Widdle! They revelled in their ability to finally say his name without fear of retribution. Death Eaters! Look who's eating now! Severus Snape! Pah! All fair game in terms of vilification.

And the few voices of support drowned in the tide of dissent.

* * *

"You have to help me," Harry Potter said, one bright morning in a park somewhere in Muggle Edinburgh.

"Been a while, Potter," Draco Malfoy greeted off-handedly. "In what way?" he asked, accepting his vanilla ice cream with its requisite Cadbury flake from the ice cream vendor. "Are you sure you don't want some?" Draco asked, lifting his cone slightly. Harry shook his head. Draco paid the man.

They walked a short distance to a bench recently vacated by a put-upon father and his child in a pram.

"This is about Professor Snape, isn't it?" Draco hazarded a guess, and knew that he hit the right spot when Harry averted his eyes, pretending to be fascinated at the pigeons feasting on leftovers on the cobblestone floor beneath his feet. "You can't even say his name without flinching," Draco said, amused. "And you want to do what, exactly?"

"I just… I don't know, after all he's done for me. For _you_. Malf… Draco! Oh Merlin!" Harry exclaimed, he waved his hands frantically, trying to find the words he wanted to say. "Doesn't mean we're finally best friends and all, doesn't mean I like him or anything! Far from it," Harry said. "Just… oh I don't know." Harry leaned back, tilted his head all the way back, stretched his legs far in front of him, made a small boy in a tricycle swerve to avoid his legs.

Harry turned his head slightly sideways, to look at Draco who was both looking at him and licking his ice cream with equal amusement. "Don't look at me like that," Harry said, feeling a slight flush creeping up his cheeks. He shook his head a little and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Don't tell me you don't feel that you owe that git something, Malfoy," he said finally.

And it was only Malfoy-bred decorum that stopped Draco from flinging his ice cream into Harry's face. He must looked a state, Draco thought, he felt the side of his head throbbing a furious rhythm, felt heat blooming across his forehead and cheeks. Then the cone broke in his tightly clenched fist, sending mangled ice cream and chocolate flake straight to the ground with a large splat.

"You…" Draco started, voice suddenly hoarse. Who was Harry to traipse around into his life and accuse him of being an ingrate? Draco's a Malfoy, or had Harry forgotten that in his bout of post-war stupidity? A Malfoy would never forget their debts, and Salazar help him, he knew what kind of debt he owed his late Head of House. "You…" and he couldn't find the words, didn't even realise that Harry had placed a placating hand on his shoulder.

Draco looked down, at his hand now bare, nothing to hold on to, nothing to hide his nervousness. He clenched and unclenched his fist, half-sticky from icecream, and decided to cradle it in his lap, palm facing upwards. He sighed and looked at Harry, searching something in those glasses-shielded eyes.

"This… Let's take this conversation elsewhere," Draco decided, standing up, brushing cone dust from his tailored pants. "This isn't a place for it." Not this unusually bright morning, with blue cloudless skies and happy unsuspecting muggles.

Harry stood and gestured for Draco to lead them away.

* * *

"And how do you propose we go about clearing his name?" Draco asked, as they chose a seat at the far corner of the pub. Dark, with only a small lamp in a green scone on the wall above them. The pub was rather empty and the few patrons already there didn't pay them any mind.

Draco chose coffee and Harry chose the same. The coffee came, and Harry cast a Muffliato. Draco felt a tug of wistfulness as the air shimmered subtly and settled around them.

"You do realise that the Malfoy name currently mean nothing in the public eye, don't you?" Draco said, sipping on his coffee and thought it wasn't half bad. "If you, Harry Potter the Great and Mighty, and Glorious Besides, couldn't do anything for the Professor…" He sighed heavily. "Don't you think I've thought hard about it? Do you think me so callous? And I happen to like the Professor!"

Draco sighed again, wrapped his fingers around the warm coffee cup, inhaling the scent of coffee. "Unlike you," Draco added softly.

"Excuse me? He's been horrible to me, you know!"

"He's horrible to everybody," Draco nodded slowly. "But we're not here to speak ill of the not-so-long-ago departed." Draco lifted his head. "Are we?"

"No," Harry answered, drinking his coffee. It was strong, as he was more used to tea.

"So, do you have a grand idea, Pot… Harry?" Draco asked, lifting his cup up to his lips, but didn't take a sip, merely helf it there, upon his lower lip, hands cradled around white porcelain. "You do have an idea, don't you?" he asked, lifting one pale eyebrow.

Harry nodded hastily, trying not to choke on his coffee as he witnessed a little bit of Snape on those pale brows. He wondered if Draco realised what he'd done. The late professor must have left some impression on the students of his House. "I thought a portrait to go on the Headmasters' wall would give us a good start."

"Yes," Draco agreed. "His absence on the wall seemed to fuel people's sordid imaginations."

"I don't understand it, either," Harry said. He would've been amongst Snape's detractors and doubters, possibly the loudest of them, if he hadn't seen enough of Snape's memories. "'Mione's been thinking about it, too, thinking about likely scenarios, and possible solutions."

"That girl," Draco said. "Unbelievable. Does she ever get tired of thinking and conjuring up conspiracy theories?"

"Drives Ron up the wall, I tell you."

"Literally too, I wager," Draco said, much amused.

How odd, how suddenly the whole world changed overnight. Now he's sitting in a booth with Harry Potter of all people, not at each other throats as much, and actually plotting. Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy, plotting. No Weasley or Granger in sight.

"So, a portrait," Draco said, tapping the edge of the saucer with a spoon.

"I wonder if you could point me to a good portrait painter. Is that how you call the person? A portrait painter?"

"Possibly, I never gave it much thought. A painter, I would think."

"Not some poncy word like 'portraiteur' or some such?"

"I don't know," Draco answered, stopping himself from smiling.

"So, I thought, I mean, we should get some fine painter to paint his portrait. I suppose he'd done enough to merit more than just a third-rate painter."

"A fine painter? Finally prescribing to the finer things in life, eh, Potter? Oh but I forgot your father was some pureblood burgeoisie."

"Malfoy!"

Draco raised his hands slightly and smiled apologetically, charmingly too he hoped. "I apologise, Pot… Harry. I hope you don't mind me too much, I take such great delight in baiting you, it's one of my favourite pasttimes, too. I hope you don't deprive me of it."

"Said like a true ponce," Harry muttered.

"Yes, well, about this painter. I do agree, you know," Draco sobered a little, scooping a small amount of sugar from the pot, stirring it into his coffee ponderously. "But I don't imagine there's anybody who wants to do it." Look at the uproar at the professor's internment.

"I know. Sometimes, I think even the neediest painter would turn down the money," Harry said, subdued.

"And you think I could help? How? You know I'm never any good at painting," Draco asked.

"Don't you Malfoys have personal painters? Or fine painters who owe you any blood debt or some such? I thought you Malfoys are good at that kind of thing?"

"What kind of thing?" Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Well, you know," Harry said, awkwardly, brandishing his little spoon.

"Well, I told you before. Our name isn't exactly at its best currency at the moment," Draco shrugged. "But I'll see what I can do."

"I know," Harry said. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me just yet," Draco said. "Though I do wonder why you sought me out for this. You usually want to have nothing to do with me."

"Blame it on post-war stress trauma disorderly something. 'Mione told me all about it. Makes people do strange things, I'm told," Harry said sheepishly.

Draco looked at him pointedly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. They stared at each other for a while. Draco broke his gaze first. Looking back down into his coffee cup, he sighed.

"One day, we'll look back at the horrible stuff he'd done to us, what we've done to each other, and laugh about it as if those were nothing more than a series of bad pranks. I suppose," Draco said, wondering, "once we say goodbye to what little juvenility we have left, beget children and whatnot, we'll tell them our schoolday horrors and laugh at their terrorised faces."

"Maybe," Harry said, and he thought how long into the future that would be. The wounds was still rather raw.

They didn't talk much afterwards, Draco already setting up a list of possible painters in his head, crossing out names and adding new possible ones.

Harry ordered Shepherd's Pie and Draco ordered the same. They asked for a pot of tea to share, and they left separately by late afternoon.

---


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Portrait, you say? (part 2 of ?)  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, pre-slash  
Word Count: ±1,865  
Warnings: Unbetaed, post-DH, possibly AU also  
Disclaimer: Not mine. They're definitely Ms. Rowling's, I'm just borrowing them for my twisted means.  
Summary: They found a painter, but the painter seemed (and sounded) rather odd.

* * *

They were right, of course. Almost all self-respecting portrait painters shied away from painting someone so abhorred by the public. Aligning oneself with such a controversial figure might lead to loss of patronage and other important sources of income, especially in the post-war turbulence they were currently in.

And as Draco predicted correctly, promises of Malfoy support and money were met with a wait-and-see attitude, even by the most starving of painters; even those he knew worshipped only Money and feared only Poverty. The Wizengamot was dragging its collective feet in clearing their names. Political negotiations were usually slower than molasses and twice as deadly, Malfoy Senior told his son.

There weren't many good portrait painters to begin with, and they're fast running out of options.

But, in the end, it was Minerva McGonagall who managed to connect with one.

Aled Lliwbrisio was young but had built quite a reputation as an up-coming artist, though not without controversy. An experimental painter, he was considered wild and uncouth, often straying away from the norm and testing the boundaries of the art world, strained already as they were during the Wars. The younger, more progressive set of art lovers welcomed him, though warily; the more conservative ones all but rejected him. It was possibly this underlying trait that made him accept the 'challenge' of painting Snape.

So, it was one cloudy afternoon -- with dark grey monstrous fluff hanging low on the horizon -- that Harry and Draco made their way to Artie Fitch Alley. They walked past galleries, some barely open, some merely empty shells, all victims of war. A torn poster was still trying its best to hang onto a sidewalk wall, advertising some exhibition that never happened. Once a cultural hub of Wizarding Europe, the Alley was now mostly abandoned.

They stopped in front of a red door, defiantly blood red against all the drab greys and sedate browns of its neighbours. Also unlike the rest of the street that had fallen into gross disrepair, this door seemed freshly painted. Draco rang the bell and soon they were shown in by the artist, led into a small parlour at the back of the studio, facing a postage stamp backyard, a young hazel tree growing in the middle of it.

They sat down, and a house elf appeared with cream tea and plain biscuits. The host apologised for the spartan welcome ("business wasn't what it used to be," the artist said); the guests graciously accepted with an it's-all-right and a never-you-mind.

"Everyone believes I'm doing this for the controversy," Lliwbrisio-call-me-Aled said, leaning back into his seat, cradling his tea cup. "Maybe. But only a little." He sipped his tea and looked outside the window with a certain air of contemplation. "That," he said, waving at the general direction of the tree with his tea cup, "is another reason." Another sip. "The red door outside?" he asked, waiting for his guests to nod, "another reason."

"I was sorted Ravenclaw," Aled said, replacing his cup back onto its saucer. "Graduated a year before your entrance. Like you, and many others, I was terrified of Professor Snape. I'm still rather afraid of him, even now. But things alleviated a bit towards my final year."

* * *

It was well after curfew when young Aled sneaked out of his dorm room and made his way down to the potions classroom. Professor Snape was not at dinner in the Great Hall for the past three days, and a substitute teacher had filled for his classes the past week. It wasn't an odd occasion, the Professor had gone on errands for the Headmaster before.

This time as well, it would seem. And Aled felt brave enough to traipse down to Snape's domain.

He pushed the classroom door open -- just a tiny crack -- and peeked in. _Nobody_. He pushed the door wide open, walked in, then closed the door behind him. He went to his usual workbench, the same workbench he'd used since his first year. He laid his books open and quickly took note of all the ingredients he needed.

Once everything was arranged, neatly, meticulously just as Snape would have wanted it, he set to work. _Crushed cochineal nymphs, medium-aged Opuntia finely diced, then ground, Devil's coal, distilled Jujube leaves, three-times-processed Late-Season Safflowers, then extract of hongqumi..._

So engrossed was he in his task, he didn't realise that he was no longer alone.

He'd only lifted his head for a second, to straighten his back after bending over his chopping board, mortar and pestle; and to wait for the base compounds to reach the desired temperature. He spotted a dark figure in the corner of the classroom and all but jumped out of his skin. His books fell onto the floor and he almost cut himself with his paring knife.

"P... Pro... P... I..." Aled blinked, stammered, shook, felt faint.

But the Professor merely crossed the room, sat on his desk at the head of the class. With a flick of his wand, the class was suddenly bright. "You shouldn't work in the dark," Professor Snape offered by way of explanation, already reaching for the stack of essay scrolls.

Aled, shocked, did not move. His cauldron bubbled and hissed as the base compound boiled furiously.

"You have exactly fifteen seconds before that base die a useless death," the Professor commented, not lifting his eyes from the essay in front of him. "Eight, seven, six... Mr. Lliwbrisio? Time doesn't stop for anyone."

Aled shook himself back into coherency, flicked off the flame and poured the some cochineal mixture in it, stirring it just the way Snape would have prescribed (or at least Aled hoped so).

* * *

"That experiment was a disaster," Aled reminisced, offering more tea to Harry and Draco, both declining with a polite nod. "At that time I was still searching for that perfect red dye, the one colour that haunted me, my dreams and my waking light. More red, more vivid, more defiant, warmer than any dye available to the public then. The Professor allowed me my experiments, even after hours, though he would not tolerate me failing in my other classes. 'Minerva and Flitwick would have my head, and the Headmaster would laugh himself silly then', he had said."

"Were you... close to the Professor?" Draco asked.

"Close?" Aled asked back, blue-green eyes narrowing. "In what way? We were never close in any sense other than through scientific curiosity. He was rude, brusque, and unapproachable as ever, but as long as you commanded his professional respect, I guess he's rather tolerable. Our first sign of success arrived a week before the NEWTs were about to begin. It was almost as red as I had hoped, closest to the Red that I'd dreamt of. Then it was time to sit for the NEWTs; then it was time to graduate. I went to the family's summer house and continued my experiments."

"One day, out of the blue, maybe by accident, the most resplendent of reds appeared in my cauldron, and by Merlin it was almost a sacred experience all by itself. I think I cried that day, then somehow found enough of my wits to cool the dye, and send a sample to Hogwarts. He wrote a terribly formal note of congratulations, wrote that he hoped to see the red dye on my works in person. Should I stop being a dunderhead enough to produce worthwhile art."

"I went to the Art Institute, invited him to my final year show but he never showed up. I invited him to my first gallery exhibition, but he didn't show up either. I sent him an invitation to my first solo exhibition, but all he sent me was a small Hazel tree, in a preserving charm, with instructions for its care from Madam Sprout."

At this time, Aled had grown quite wistful. "I invited him to all my exhibitions afterwards but he never came. He never showed up. Never even bothered to reply the RSVP. I guess I've outlived my usefulness by then. Or there were more important things for him to worry about. Or maybe I wasn't important enough for him and his time. Just another student, or some such. Useful only when there's a scientific discovery looming at the end of the rainbow, useless thereafter."

Aled's house elf appeared at this moment, replaced the cooling pot of tea with a hot one, poured tea into each of their cups and left with a soft pop.

"I want to paint his portrait because I want him to see the red I've created. I want him to tell me that he's proud of me, for what I've achieved, though I suppose he'll call me a dunderhead instead." Aled laughed self-deprecatingly.

Harry and Draco sat very still, listening to Aled's grand plan. To draw the man, to get Snape – in whatever incarnation -- to see his student's achievement, and to subvert the art world once more. All in one fell swoop.

Outside, rain had begun to fall.

* * *

Aled insisted his two guests to stay for dinner, and stayed for dinner they did. It was a modest fare of potatoes and roast chicken, with a side of garden vegetables. They ate in silence, which was rather awkward, too.

Harry had missed his appointment with Ginny, and surely the girl would be cross at him. Draco didn't have any appointment to miss, but he still wanted to get out of this place. He longed for the open gardens of the manor, to be able to drink his now customary seven o'clock wine, and to retire early to bed. Maybe if they could make up some excuses to leave soon, he could invite Harry over for a game of chess or two.

* * *

"Would you like your portraits to be painted as well?" Aled asked, as he ushered his guests to the front door. The house elf was already waiting by the door with their travelling cloaks.

"Not just yet," Draco answered hastily. He'd rather have his portrait done by some respectable painter thank you very much, just as each and every one of the Malfoys since time immemorial.

"No thank you," Harry said, shrugging his cloak around his shoulders.

"Then, we shall take our leave," Draco said, stepping back out onto wet cobblestones. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself.

"I'll contact you when the portrait is ready for viewing, though you're welcome to drop in any time, to check on progress or look at the process and what not," Aled said, shaking Harry and Draco's hands.

"We'll keep that in mind," Draco said, taking another step back.

"And I do hope the both of you would agree to have your portraits painted. The two of you look a picture together," Aled said, almost introspectively.

Thankfully it was rather dark outside, with only a small number of streetlamps still working, and none within their direct vicinity. It wouldn't do for anyone to witness the matching blushes that appeared on both their cheeks.

"Well, good evening then, Mr. Lliwbrisio," Draco said. Then without waiting for any rejoinder, turned around and made a rather hasty but yet somewhat dignified retreat. Harry nodded at the bemused artist and quickly ran after Draco.

---


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Portrait, you say? (part 3 of ?)  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, pre-slash  
Word Count: ±1,220  
Warnings: Unbetaed, post-DH, possibly AU also  
Disclaimer: Not mine. They're definitely Ms. Rowling's, I'm just borrowing them for my twisted means.  
Summary: The painter arrived at his first hurdle

* * *

Aled kept his studio on the half-way floor between his gallery and his living space. It was the best room in his small gallery-house, the one with the best view of the garden and the city beyond. He hadn't been in that room for a long time, though, for War had taken him away from his establishment. He had helped the Auror, flying a desk instead of a broom; wielding pen and paper instead of a wand, or a brush, or canvas.

He longed to do research and walked the countryside for inspiration, but instead he researched enemies: the Dark Lord's overseas coffers, tracking Death Eater movements, everything that had made him cold inside. When the War finally ended and everybody was finally allowed to go home, Aled had headed straight to his studio, longing for the feel of his brushes and the smell of paint, the splash of colour.

But in the end, all he could do -- as he stepped into the studio, that beautiful morning three days after the official end of war -- was stare. It had been a wondrous morning, how the sunlight had streamed just right across the trees, the blooms and dew-sprinkled grass -- all the things that should excite his artistic sensibilities. The room too, had stood at the ready. His house elf had done an excellent job in maintaining it.

All these, once a source of joy and obsession, had become a stranger to him. And he had stood there, a step inside the door, unable to move forward. He had stood for a good part of the morning clenching and unclenching his fist, feeling anger and frustration bubbling up. Finally, he had turned around and told his house elf to lock up and leave the key inside the drawer of his bedside desk.

Now, a few months on, he found himself sitting in the middle of the same room, with curtains and windows thrown wide open. He whistled softly, to the tune set by the late morning breeze, mixing his oils and paints in the dark hues of the man he remembered. He had stayed up all night to choose the memories and and had relearnt the incantations needed to fix the image of Severus Snape onto canvas. He had thought of what he wanted to do, to draw, to make his portrait of Snape worthy of the Headmasters' Wall.

He glanced at the square of canvas upon the easel, the brushes and paint knives lined on the table next to it, and allowed himself a the portrait was finished, he thought, it would be easy to create more art, to return to his rightful place as a foremost artist in Wizarding Britain. He imagined himself being whisked away to all sorts of places, to exhibitions across Europe, finally getting that ever-important patronage which will cement his status.

It would be as if he'd never left.

* * *

Two weeks later, Draco received a frantic firecall from Aled Lliwbrisio over lunch. Draco had almost forgotten who the man was, having been caught up in his own tangle of problems. The artist had insisted that Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter come to his studio immediately.

"Impossible, Mr. Lliwbrisio," Draco said, having abandoned his parents at the lunch table. "I'm expected at the Ministry in an hour. And though I do not know what Mr. Potter's schedule is like, I dare say that he would be similarly unavailable."_He is a celebrity afterall,_ Draco thought. _Busier than a family of ex-Death Eaters trying to get their names cleared, surely._ He remembered Harry complaining about not getting enough sleep.

"But you must come. Immediately!"

"We trust you, Mr. Lliwbrisio. You and your abilities. I'm sure the portrait would be flawless."

"That is the problem!" the artist wailed. Draco flinched, and not for the first time he hoped that fireplaces come with some sort of way to manipulate the volume. "The potrait refused to be drawn!"

"Refused to be drawn?" Draco asked. "Are you saying you are unable to draw the portrait?"

"No! It's… it's just…"

"Just what? Are you unable? Or unwilling? Or maybe the price has gone up?" _Bloody money-grubbing artists. Spew me all those sentimental tripe about a teacher, in the end it was all about the money._

"_No!_ That's really not it," Lliwbrisio cried, denying Draco's accusations vehemently. "It's… oh… It's not easy for me to explain. It's just…"

"Take a deep breath, Mr. Lliwbrisio," Draco urged. Really now, he thought, the perils of working with arty-types. He couldn't understand their penchant for theatricals.

"It's as if the painting just disappeared. Into thin air!"

"Stolen?" _Why would anyone steal a half-finished painting of Snape, of all people_. Draco refused to believe that there's some nefariously laughable cult group out there collecting and worshipping half-finished portraits of Snape.

"No. Merely that the canvas turned blank every morning," Lliwbrisio said.

"In other words, you haven't managed to paint him."

"No! Don't you understand? The Professor refused to be painted!"

"Has the Professor told you? Has his painting spoken to you about his refusal of being painted? Or is it merely your excuse for not painting him?" Out of all the artists Draco had come across, Lliwbrisio had managed to come up with a novel excuse of not painting Snape's picture. A vanishing portrait. At this day and age? It's the first one he's ever heard.

"Please, you have to come," Lliwbrisio pleaded, almost rather pathetically too. "You'll understand it if you see it for yourself."

"There's simply no way for me to make time to visit you today," Draco said after a while. Lliwbrisio sounded suitably frantic, maybe there's some substance to this curious phenomena after all.

"Come as early as is convenient, then," Lliwbrisio said, sounding quite defeated and tired.

The call ended soon enough and Draco decided to consider his mental agenda. First, to finish lunch. His curry would be cold by now, but he hoped his mother would remember to cast a warming charm over it. Then, to the sodding Ministry. They seemed to have misplaced Harry Potter's written testimony about the Malfoys, the one that would exonerate them. If the testimony could not be found, or to have a new testimony logged, it would be Azkaban for the Malfoys. His father had no intention of returning there, of course.

Then he'd have to find Harry, possibly saving Potter's arse from the Weasleys. _Can't they see they're not doing him any favours by smothering him? _A good thing that Potter's off to Auror Academy soon, he thought.

Draco did not make it to the dining room. Instead, he fell bonelessly into one of the couches in the hallway. He sighed and closed his eyes. Tired. He was so tired. They were all tired. Had they any rest at all since that fateful day? He didn't think so. Everyone had been running around like headless beasts.

He sorely needed a vacation, but he doubt it was at all possible to get one in the near future.

He sighed once more, then abandoned any hope for lunch. Instead he decided to catch a short nap on the couch, until his mother woke him up and it's time to go to the Ministry.


End file.
